


Blanket Stitch

by wheniwasdonedying



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Developing Friendships, Dissociation, Drug Use, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Surgery, also heavy is there and is married to medic. bye, i guess? its perscribed LOL, tldr pyro and medic become friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29631126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheniwasdonedying/pseuds/wheniwasdonedying
Summary: You told him you didn’t feel sick. “That's good,” he said, smiling wide and bright. “We are going to make sure it stays that way.”
Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2), Medic & Pyro (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Blanket Stitch

**Author's Note:**

> umm very small silly thing i made on my phone bc i could not sleep. today i give you another power of friendship tf2 story. tomorrow...? who knows :o)
> 
> ALSO this was literally based on a youtube comment about how medic would know pyros identity due to installing the ubercharge. thanks for that, random youtube commenter

You’d grown attached to your mask since it’d been gifted to you, more so than any other amenity. It felt safe, safer than the suit, safer than a gun. You didn’t need to wear it as much as you did, but you did anyways. Everything was new and cold and scary. Loud, strange, bright. White lights and concrete floors and sharp edges. Clinical and militaristic. 

You tended only to take it off when going to bed. Locking your door, unlocking it, locking it again to make sure, to feel the difference. Sometimes you didn’t trust the lock and slept with the mask under your pillow just to be safe. Sometimes you didn’t sleep at all. 

A few days in and you were sent to the doctor. You told him you didn’t feel sick. “That's good,” he said, smiling wide and bright. “We are going to make sure it stays that way.” 

There was a little bit of blood on his shirt, and a piece of his hair had fallen out of place in a way that was charming. He was always smiling, and laughed when he spoke. He seemed warm in a way, bright and sunny and just strange enough to be safe. You decided you trusted him already. 

He asked you to take off your mask, and when you refused he chastised you, albeit affectionately - explaining things about oxygen masks and tracking your vitals. You conceded - on the condition that you could hold it. 

He said he preferred local anaesthesia over complete sedation, thought that it was valuable for one to see and understand what was happening to their body. You thought that made enough sense. He said he would put you under if being awake presented any problems. “On my end, of course,” he added. “Screaming is distracting, and is as much a product of fear as it is pain.” You wondered what the two of you would see. 

He strapped your limbs down, one of your hands gripping your mask. Positioned a light above your abdomen, sterilized the area, and injected the numbing agent. Laid some kind of sheet down, framing the area around where the incision would be made, in order to minimize cleanup. 

He made several incisions spanning your chest and stomach, pulling the skin back. Poking around, he made comments every now and then. Mostly healthy. A bit of damaged lung tissue. No growths. Abnormal rib-cage and spinal development. Slightly weak heart, but nothing to be too concerned about. 

You laughed at the strangeness of being able to see something happen but not feel it. The doctor had a pleasant expression on his face, like you were in on his joke. 

It was when he began to really move things around that you started to lose your grip a little bit - you looked away from yourself and up towards the light, now omitting a rainbow coloured ring. You squinted at it, and little starbursts formed, tiny nebulae that danced around the ceiling just for you. When you looked back down again, it was at his face, your vision spotted with the redaction of light. His expression was intense now as he placed the device carefully, but he smiled up at you when he caught you staring. He wasn’t wearing any gloves. 

Once he was satisfied with how things had been arranged, he sewed you back up, and you liked watching that part. The stitches were evenly placed, and the action felt almost sentimental. Like a piece of embroidery, or a quilt. 

He gave you pills and told you to take them if you were sore. He helped you to your room, and asked if you needed anything. Still very woozy, you threw your arms around his middle and clung to him, a little shaken. He held you for a while, and then pried the pill bottle out of your hand, placing it on the table next to the bed. 

“Don’t take more than four of these at a time,” he said with one hand up, thumb down and fingers splayed. “You may die for a little bit, which is no big deal, but will be very inconvenient.” You agreed, took two, and fell asleep. 

When you woke up it was dark again. Your stomach and chest hurt so terribly that you assumed it was what had woken you up. You took some more medicine, stumbled to the bathroom, and then the kitchen. Started to make food and nodded off again on the floor. The next time you saw the doctor for a check up, you mentioned waking up in your bed afterwards, a little scared that you’d lost time again. He said he wasn’t sure what you meant, but that Misha (you were supposed to use professional titles, though neither of you did in moments like this,) had been in charge of security that night, noticed you, and carried you back. You said to thank him for you. He said he would. 

It stopped hurting after a while, and you ran out of pills. You started wearing your mask less and tried not to care when someone would stare at you. You didn’t know what to say, most of the time, but you started watching people back, would shadow them while they worked. Usually you were told to leave (and usually not in such kind words,) but the doctor and Misha never minded. They both liked having someone to talk to when they weren’t able to talk to each other. Misha talked less, but he said you were good at listening. They both had interesting stories. They both liked books, and liked telling you their thoughts on what they'd read. The doctor washed his instruments, and Misha polished his gun, and you thought it was cute, how similar their routines were. 

Things felt safer, having them on your side. It was easier to navigate the base, and you stopped seeing terrible things in dark corners, at the edges of your vision. Any existing forms were friendly now, gave you advice. Edges softened. Colours brightened. You stopped getting lost in places you’d been before, and only had to lock your door once to be sure that it was locked. It was nice. 

And very lucky; nearly a month had passed since you’d moved in, and with everyone having undergone the same procedure and recovered, tomorrow was the first day of deployment. 

It was better, you assumed, to be in a positive state of mind.


End file.
